Scars Don't Heal
by DatAssRomano
Summary: Even if someone tries to help, you can still get pulled down into the darkness. And sometimes you end up dragging down someone with you. ((FrUk, hinted character death, past SpUk, Spamano))


**# Bruised And Scarred #**

**:3 Yes, it has mentions of SpUk and Spamano, but its still FrUk, I promise. I thought to myself that I needed to mix it up with these damn oneshots, but I have literally no ideas at all for FrUk. So this one isn't part of my collection. *drowns self in puddle* I need ideas. Please. **

**-Blame Eris-Chan and Mayday Parade (they are now the depressing duo) for the depressing nature of this fic. First half's Iggy, second part's Francia, last bit's Spamano.**

**Self prompt song was Bruised And Scarred by Mayday Parade. If anyone has a song to recommend I'd love to hear it.**

### ####

_The sensation of the confusion, the pain, unwanted and uncontrollable._

_The sight, blind and dark. _

_The sound, an echoing silence that radiated pain and emptiness. _

_A smell, faintly sweet but completely painful, burning his throat._

_The dryness of his mouth, a bitter taste rising with the fear._

"...I don't understand what happened."

Eyes, filled with unspoken pity, regarded him. Their pale gold, mixed with a fiery green looked away from him, slightly nervously, and England tugged on Spain's shirt to get the other's attention again. The Spaniard looked down at him, something cold in his expression that usually wasn't there, and England felt himself shrink away slightly. Even though his pale, clinging fingers were still hooked in the soft fabric of the other's shirt. He glanced at Romano, who was staring at the wall opposite him, an almost desperately worried expression flickering over his face. Romano looked back, his expression unreadable. They stared at each other for a few minutes, letting the seconds tick by as they tried to judge each other's expressions. Finally both seemed to deem it impossible and Romano stalked over to the door, avoiding his gaze for Spain's.

"Antonio...can we leave now?"

Spain smiled at Romano softly, that pure little ray of happiness, not meant for him any more. How could something meant to reassure the Italian hurt so much? His numb grip dropped the cloth, closing his eyes as if to hide from the pain assaulting him. It burned a track down England's body, from his raw throat to his aching chest. Why did it hurt so much, being abandoned like this? There was so much _emotion_ that he didn't want right now, too much of the cord of his sanity fraying. It was only a matter of time until he snapped.

He realised faintly that Spain had left the room, and Romano was still standing in the doorway. It seemed at least one of them had a conscience; not that it mattered in the slightest any more. Nothing mattered because nothing seemed to be able to fix the holes in his heart. He met the broken-looking gold-green gaze and Romano looked as though he wanted to say something, but instead flicked a piece of paper towards him and left.

And then England was alone. Standing in the middle of an unknown office room in some country he didn't care for, trying not to feel anything in the fear he'd throw himself out the window or something. Alone with the piece of paper, yet unable to pick it up. He didn't want to know what it said. No, that was wrong. He wanted to know what it said but he didn't want the tears that would come with it.

### ####

_The sensation, the sharp sting as the blade pierced his scarred skin._

_The sight of the blood, dark red and alluring. _

_The sound of his phone chiming again, the thing advising him he had yet another new text. _

_A smell, the coppery tang of the blood hitting his nostrils._

_The dryness of his mouth, the desire to simply fade away overpowering. _

The texts...were from France. Why? He was friends with Antonio, was he not? So why were there these...strange texts, inquiring about him, inviting him out for a drink, simply starting a chat even. England replied to none of them. When Spain had left him, so had everyone else. Gone were the days of spending time with Romano, who was Veneziano's brother, who was Germany's boyfriend, who was Prussia's brother, who hung around Austria, who was married to Hungary, who was now on speaking terms with Romania, who was best friends with Bulgaria, and so on. He was completely excluded.

And exhausted. He couldn't handle much more of this isolation, even if in theory he wanted to be alone after his breakup with Spain. All that kept him aware were the cuts, bloody and intensifying everything around him. He had nothing to keep him here, in this world, but he couldn't escape either. The small cuts, slowly torturing him, dunking him into insanity and then dragging him back slowly. He opened the last text France had sent him, scanning the hastily typed message.

- Angleterre, pls reply. I'm worried mon cher -

Like hell he was. England chucked his phone across the room, the phone ironically chiming again as it hit the ground. He buried his face into a cushion and let out a shaky sigh. He couldn't deal with this.

### ####

_The sensation of the phone, silent, sentencing him to asylum._

_The sight of the dark screen, knowing in his heart there would never be a text._

_The sound of water running in the sink, as Spain did the dishes quietly. _

_The smell of tomatoes fresh in the air, mixed with the dark of the wine._

_The dryness of his mouth, unable to taste the food he had eaten only moments ago. _

France looked up at Romano, who was gazing blankly out a window. Spain finished the dishes and wandered over to poke the Italian, and Romano simply batted the hand away without removing his gaze from the fog. The other brunette sighed heavily and went back to sitting across from France. Their gazes met each other, blue to green, and the blonde was the first to look away. His lips curled slightly in an amused scowl, and Spain's expression was pained.

"Arthur needs you now more than ever. Why aren't you with him already?"

France sighed. "I don't know whether he'd accept my help, Toni. He's in a dark place, and he might go somewhere worse if I interfere."

"But there's a chance you could fix him."

"Does he want to be fixed?"

"I...think he does, deep in his heart."

That was that, then. France stood, his head spinning for a moment as he blinked a few times. His nation was facing some problems with food shortages, and it was having its own toll on him. But he would be all right, just as England would be all right...perhaps. Would he be okay? It was impossible to tell; after all, no one had seen him for a long time. Sometimes he was asked if the Brit was even alive, which brought a sharp pain to his heart. England had to be alive. A reality where he wasn't was a reality France didn't want. It could all go to hell as long as England was there with him.

It could all go to hell.

Of course.

### ####

That knocking, the insistent, nonstop knocking...what was it, exactly? The vibrations reached his knees and travelled up his weak body, fading out at his chest. England raised tired green eyes as the door was kicked open with a bang. What was this? A knife, one used for carving meat, hung numbly from one hand as his shadowed gaze flickered over France dully.

"What is it?"

The question seemed to amuse the other blonde as he knelt down on the floor across from England, meeting the faintly curious gaze. A tired, faded smile reached both of their faces as the Brit let out a small chuckle, his grip flexing on the knife. France brushed a small, messy piece of the other's fringe out of his eyes, the gentle motion causing England's eyes to widen slightly. He looked down, his expression as unreadable as Romano's had been.

"...I don't need him. But...it was the last blow to my sanity."

"...I understand."

"You don't mind?"

"Non, Arthur. I understand."

"So we can...?"

"Oui."

England laughed, a hint of relief in the sound that had no happiness in it. France grinned and pulled him into an embrace, the exhausted heat radiating from their bodies and creating a feverish darkness. They enjoyed the silence together, although they were both kneeling in a pool of rapidly growing blood. France wrapped his hand over England's, on the dripping handle of the knife. The blood soaked their pale hands, intertwined on the sharp implement, as their lips met briefly and England broke off to speak, although weakly.

"Do you think they'll...miss us...?"

"Perhaps."

"I...don't...care anymore, really."

### ####

Spain looked back at Romano, who was still standing by the window. It had begun raining, and one slightly tanned hand was pressed against the window as the pale gold-coloured eyes watched the flow of water down the pane. His expression was, once again, completely unreadable, and Spain felt slightly unsettled by it. He placed a tomato on the pane, as he had been every day so far, hoping the Italian would show some kind of reaction. He hadn't; not for a while.

Then he sat with a book, and read it silently, in a chair where he had a perfect view of what the other man was doing.

Suddenly, Romano flinched, the sharp, sudden movement causing Spain to wander over to look at him. The hand that had been on the window was closed in a tight fist, a small trail of blood leaking from it. His eyes were wide, panicked, and his face was as white as a sheet.

"Romano...Romano, hello? What's wrong?!"

All of a sudden his expression disappeared again, and he turned away from the window, grabbing the tomato from the windowsill and biting into it as he stalked to the front door. Spain followed, poking him to try and get his attention, although he received the same lack of response as usual. Romano opened the front door and wandered out into the rain, letting it soak his body. Spain stared at him from the door, frowning. He was going to catch a cold or something; and knowing Romano, that was probably his intention.

"...Romano?"

"I had a feeling this might happen."

"What?"

"...you'll find out soon enough."


End file.
